Vacancy
by Silent Scribe
Summary: If home is where the heart is, where does Sesshomaru live? A Sesshomaru and Inu no Taisho fanfic.


_"Certainly these feelings of mercy of yours are not something I inherited from our great and terrible father." – Sesshomaru, episode 7._

**Vacancy**

The first demon I knew was my father.

With his thunderous voice and short-fused ire, I learned early to stay out of his way. Those glowing eyes and guttural roars could be replaced with his predatory stealth at a moment's whim. Forever on the prowl, Father was respected among many, but his punitive streak made him feared by all.

Not unlike a phantom beast, he slipped in and out of my life, lingering some days more than others, then vanishing until I wondered of his existence. As the decades passed, I came to understand my sire's vocation: Lord of the Western Lands, and consequently an ambitious general. There wasn't any stop in his itinerary for a growing pup. A fond look was expensive enough, to lay down the sword might cost fresh territory. I wasn't worth that much.

I grew accustomed to my father's absences. It was all I knew. Over the years, he led longer and longer campaigns; but I also knew it would have been difficult to have him around all the time. His temper volatile, his moods quicksilver. Which is not to say I didn't get lonely. Loneliness was at the center of my childhood and now the bridge into my adolescence.

Almost ironic, really, a boy growing up in opulence, provided with servants, scholars, and trainers at every turn, but not a single friend. Did they fear me as much as Father? Possibly; or rather they quaked at his rage should anything distract me. In the end I concluded friendship for one such as I would be superfluous. For all his cohorts, Father didn't invite select individuals to share a cup of saké. If he could do without so could I.

And of Mother? Who was that anyway? I suppose it could refer to the lady in the next room, she _did_ give birth to me. Strange how some people associate nurture and care with such a title. It was fanciful to fathom that mothers allegedly loved the sires of their children. Love implied happiness, that the children to come from it would be celebrated treasures.

How quixotic.

I was less a reminder of marital bliss than a product for continuing a legacy. Father was the Western Lord, as his first born son I was destined to accept that station. As soon as I could heft a blade my body was forged to be a lethal weapon, filled by a mind sharpened for quick calculation and a spirit tempered to know only ambition. Vaguely I wondered if there was space left for a heart. Then again if no one mentioned it, it was probably of no consequence.

As far back as my memory can stretch, I recall Father being terribly select with his words, as if he hated to speak more than necessary. I was denied his presence so often I'd frequently hope I would be permitted his voice. Not the rough barking he used on vassals; something softer, but not monotone. He had such an imposing character that even with childish innocence I never felt brazen enough to ask bubbling questions. "What do you dream about? To where are you always gone? Do you love me?" All stayed bottled up inside my throat. In due time, however, the questions fermented their own answers: Nothing. Nowhere. No.

Regarded with distant courtesy, I merely bowed to him in the hallways if we crossed paths. He nodded and so I was acknowledged. The pounding yoki he radiated served as a barricade even to those of us closer than enemies.

Father never treated any place I shared with him like a home. He came and went as he saw fit, carrying his essentials on his person. He told me some of the places he visited, but without a trace of romance or adventure, without mentioning the sights he must have taken – the icy reaches of Hokkaido, the Mainland's tortuous mountains, volcanic islands enshrouded in fog – and the exotic yokai, from tigers to giant scorpions, he must have encountered. All of this I acquired from the record room's dated scrolls, which I read in hopes of getting closer to him. When this didn't happen, I grew even more resentful, as always happened when I tried too hard with him. Father believed displays of enthusiasm, spontaneous emotion, jarred your inner compass and diluted your focus. And what was it he was so focused on?

I craved to see someone more expressive than a glacier. Those mortals in their toil and frivolity below us were tenfold more animated than Mother or…anyone else up here. The ennui of remaining aloof sickened me. Before long my curiosity won out and I wandered too close to a human settlement. The children there had mistaken for one of their own. I was amused, playing out my role for a bit, until the local shrine priestess marched out. She knew what I was, I saw the burning recognition in her eyes as she notched an arrow and took aim.

"I'll leave now," I bargained, holding my hands up. The miko barked for the children to scatter – recalling the horror etched in their expressions, they knew, too. They wouldn't have anything to do with me now.

I backed away slowly, one foot cautiously placed behind the other, my head bowed like a puppy before this human. I edged past the last house, swallowing my pulse as my nose roiled with the gathering magic at the arrow's point. Just a few more steps.

"It's a demon!" someone shrieked. At that my nerve broke and I bolted for the woods. Only I didn't dive into the brush so much as I was shocked into it. It wasn't the metallic scent of my own blood or the way it trickled down my back that had me gasping and choking back screams. The spiritual fire that blazed from the tip of the priestess' shot surged throughout my veins.

My body was still small for daiyokai, but innate immunity demanded rest. I shuddered, unsure if I would wake later, and stilled.

For hours I'd felt dead – a serf later informed it was days. The memories of fleeting consciousness were muddled. I wish I could truly know if the dulcet lullaby I'd heard wasn't because I was delirious from fever. When I opened my eyes again, I recognized the scent of my room. The gentle touches of calloused hands pressing dampened cloths to my head was unfamiliar.

"Father?"

"Your fever's broken," he stated simply; then went about getting fresh water, leaving me alone. My chest ached and it had nothing to do with the arrow wound. I had mixed feelings, for it was painful to know Father could be that caring when he wanted. That night I was ambulatory again and, as fast as my enfeebled legs could carry me, teetered out to his study. I was greeted by another fur-cloaked figure, she said Father had departed this afternoon. I returned to my quarters, not venturing out for another week. I was nauseated.

As I recuperated I occupied myself with more and more training; controlling my yoki, perfecting my swordsmanship, driving my stamina to new limits – somehow I'd come to believe that if I strengthened my body I would also strengthen my heart.

Father was strong physically and emotionally. He obviously didn't allow himself to grow attached to anything or anyone in this world. Certainly I could achieve the same power. When I found myself pining for his company – mentally reliving the times he sparred with me, told me my strikes veered too much to the left, when he was at my bedside – I'd shrug and remind myself what a privilege it was to have spent time with him at all. Those few moments should be enough; at least I know what Father looks like.

For a couple solid centuries I followed this routine. On occasion when he was around, Father would impart with new tips or small challenges to polish my skills. With the right amount of emotional investment, my parent's comings and goings were tolerable.

Then came a time when he didn't approach me at all. The first time I rationalized that he'd forgotten; the Lord of the West had many engagements to be sure. But it was soon habitual. Before when he would poke his head into the dojo just to see if I was there, now he didn't even knock. Had he lost interest in me? Or my development? Perhaps he was waiting for me to apply what I'd been taught. I wasn't a pup anymore, so I carried out what I believed were Father's intentions. It was time earn my right as a daiyokai.

I headed first North, sniffing out the dominant yokai clan of the area. Their leader, a slovenly hulking lout, was no challenge – hardly worth the kill. I occupied the area for a while weeding out the rebels, then moved onward. Sometimes a demon would last longer than a few seconds and I'd know the rush of battle. The realest form of engagement gripped me in combat. The achievement by my own strength stained itself crimson on my claws. Yet though I'd accrued a sizeable district by the end of a decade, if Father was aware he gave no sign. I was furious – what would it take for him to pay attention to me?

Eyes aflame, I stormed into his strategy room one evening, brush in hand prepared to leave him a written complaint if need be. To my surprise he was there. That addled me for a second, but when he continued marking positions and dates on a map without a glance in my direction I snapped.

"What am I to you? What will it take for you to detect that I exist?"

He cocked his head as if I spoke a foreign tongue. I reined back my anger and tried again. "You haven't discerned anything I've done in my life as worth your time. I've accomplished claiming my own territory and you're as apathetic as ever."

His brush swished over the map once more. He sighed my name in tone reserved for addressing an unruly child; I scowled, I was nearly grown now or hadn't he noticed that?

"I too can walk the path of conquest. Look!" I flung my own charted itinerary before him. It got his attention, but not the reaction I'd hoped. I was acting just like him, surely that merited more than the expression he offered me. And that was the most confounding of all.

Suddenly, I felt foolish, naïve - churlish enough to believe my little display would solicit warmth from him. I strode from the room, humiliated. He'd gazed at me as one would dog that can longer discern himself from his reflection: pitying, remorseful, and - for being the owner of such a beast - regretful.

.

Father left for a span after that and for once I was glad. Until I perceived something was amiss. At first I paid no mind how his scent lingered so close to home, reasoning it was my deluded yearning for his presence. However, when I asked Mother she confirmed my suspicions. Father was about the grounds, but now he avoided us altogether. He'd leave the palace at odd intervals, sometimes during the middle of the day, others in the dead of the night. I fought to ignore my petty feelings, banish them from my being. Though it seemed the more I attempted to stoke the embers, the hotter they smoldered.

I shouldn't have cared what the natures of his affairs were. It was none of my concern.

Once I passed a night repeating the mantra over and over, even as I raced through the moonlit forests, directly under the nose of the great canine in the star-splattered sky.

Gradually the terrain cleared, until all trees had vanished. My nose crinkled at the pungent sulfuric odor of the area; molten lava steamed through fissures in the ground and I took refuge on the gravel surrounding the enormous carcass of a great tunnel worm.

Father took his temporary form and landed in this desolate place. He advanced upon the skeletal worm and I plastered myself to its side. Had I been discovered? I was downwind and had been prudent to the loose stones that conspired to betray my presence.

"Totosai!" Father hollered into the beast's gaping maw. I sighed my relief. He was here to meet an associate. But who would live in a dump like this? A derelict?

Presently, a wiry old demon wielding a blacksmith's hammer tottered out. "As you wished, my lord," Totosai, I presumed, wheezed as he handed over two blades. My spirits rose as I identified the well-worn hilt of one sword: Tetsusaiga!

There was meaningless niceties exchanged, and I cared not. I couldn't pull my eyes away from Tetsusaiga, the fang of my sire imbued with his power. The one vestige of my father's glory, all the best qualities I would ever know of him – his strength, might, fearlessness – embodied in one blade. It surely would be my inheritance someday.

I heard the rattle of steel in scabbard and glimpsed the gleaming fang. Except it was not Tetsusaiga. I must have been seeing the other sword. The blade was light, slender and the hilt was a celestial blue. Nothing like the Steel-Cleaving Fang and probably not its equal in skill. I scoffed.

Suddenly I heard Father's voice rise and remembered where I wasn't supposed to be.

"Come out or I shall strike." He knew it was I, his son, and still he dared to confront me as an intruder.

I stepped forward. He nodded, his eyes remained narrow.

It was the scawny codger who broke the silence. "Say, Lord Inu no Taisho, is he yours? Spitting image, too. You never mentioned you had a son."

I tried not to, but I flinched.

Father cleared his throat abruptly. "Why, yes, I most certainly have, Totosai. You're just always forgetting things."

"Well, now I think I would remember something like –" Father slapped the old demon heartily on the back, chuckling pretentiously.

I hadn't missed the shame that briefly flashed on his visage and I felt like I'd been slapped. Would he truly forget me? Or deny my existence? Was the slight intentional? I don't think it made any difference, the pain was still inflicted.

"I take my leave now. I thank you for your services, Totosai," Father said. He glanced at me. "Coming?"

I flew beside him, the wind a welcoming numbness.

"I was picking up a sister sword I commissioned for Tetsusaiga."

I started. I wasn't used to Father just supplying information. I didn't bother questioning his whereabouts. I was relieved the burden if I didn't care anymore. There were more pertinent matters. "The blade is for yourself? You will eventually bequeath Tetsusaiga to me, correct?"

"Tenseiga is a fine piece blade in its own right. It takes potential to master such a sword." He tilted his head, considering. "One day, you'll know the power after which you hunger."

When he said no more, I didn't pry. I see what a fool I was in retrospect. In this, as in all matters, he had a disarming method of keeping me uninformed: he maintained a silence so profound that when he did share a few elusive facts, it felt like a deluge, until later I realized he had told me nothing.

A ways later, Father descended on the coast. Landing beside him, I followed him with my eyes but little else. Then, as he did in the war room a while back, he cast me that same sad, somber gaze. I struck out in the opposite direction, trekking for hours; at least I would look as I did in my father's mind – invisible and insignificant.

Now the waning moon fades over the azure tinted horizon, its starry acolytes close behind. I dully realize just how long I've walking, passing the hours in fruitless introspection. Introspection induced because there's no one to listen.

Without looking I know dawn's first rays are dancing on my back. I stand. Perhaps its time I returned home. I'm certain Father won't be there, but maybe his scent will still linger enough to indulge one fantasy that he's in the same room as I and we're keeping company.

I can't help the thoughts that race back to Tetsusaiga. It will be my inheritance won't it, Father? I'm still your only, aren't I? Can't I claim that much from you? Perhaps in gifting me with your power you'll present me with that title so much more than "heir"; will you finally gift me with the approbation of son?

.

_Author's Note: First of all, thanks for reading all the way!_ :D _Secondly, I apologize if Inu no Taisho sounded like a bit of a creep, but I sought a more distant perspective on his relationship with his son; even Sesshomaru's name isn't mentioned. Although the Dog General is often referred to as generous and wise, he was also feared commander and only so many characters knew him personally. He just never struck me as the kind of guy to put down roots anywhere, something that can be detrimental to a child's emotional (or lack thereof) development - and when you have mother like the Western Lady...well... Writing from Sesshomaru's viewpoint I think helped me add a level of intimacy that's often so hard to achieve with his guarded character. I believe I was rather influenced by the fanfic "My Little Warrior" (it's in my favorites for a reason). Critique is always appreciated. _


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